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Page 216 - ... That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Page 27 - One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting.
Page 110 - I WEIGH not fortune's frown or smile; I joy not much in earthly joys; I seek not state, I seek not style; I am not fond of fancy's toys. I rest so pleased with what I have, I wish no more, no more I crave.
Page 248 - Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power, But left her all in her wintry hour ; And the crowds that swore for her love to die, Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh ; — And this is man's fidelity ! 'Tis woman alone, with a purer heart. Can see all these idols of life depart ; And love the more, and smile and bless Man in his uttermost wretchedness.
Page 271 - He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, And set the anxious frame that lately shook : He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ' In life itself she was so still and fair...
Page 237 - Nor fix'd on you alone ? And can you rend, by doubting still, A heart so much your own ? To you my soul's affections move Devoutly, warmly true ; My life has been a task of love, One long, long thought of you.
Page 224 - TWAS early day, and sunlight stream'd Soft through a quiet room, That hush'd, but not forsaken seem'd, Still, but with nought of gloom. For there, serene in happy age, Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of Heaven's recorded love. Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, On his...
Page 159 - THE OUTLAW'S RENDEZVOUS. Our plots fall short like darts which rash hands throw With an ill aim, and have too far to go ; Nor can we long discoveries prevent ; God is too much about the innocent ! — SIR ROBERT HOWARD.